DULL Melancholy! ruefu' maid,
Begot in Disappointment's shade
By dire Disease, thy donsie dad,
On Pride, thy mither,
Wi' sickly Thought, a pale-fac'd blade,
Thy elder brither.
I ken thee by thy ceaseless mane,
Thy stauking gate, and hallow grane,
Thy lantern chafts, and lang cheek-bane,
And deaden'd e'e,
As wanderin' thro' the woods thy lane,
Thy form I see.
Or, sauntrin' near some auld grey biggin',
Where Time has torn the roof and riggin',
Where ghaists and bogles bead fu' trig in,
Wi' midnight croon,
And elves and fairies flisk a jig in,
T' waning moon:
An' by thy thoughtfu' pensive brow,
Bound roun' wi' willow, twin'd wi' yew,
An' gloomy garb that's dark to view,
And cypress sash on;
Thou mind'st nae gowns of gaudy hue,
Nor freaks o' fashion;
Nor blushing Spring, wi' dews and show'rs,
Nor Summer gay, wi' blowing flow'rs,
Nor Autumn, tho' she plenty pours,
Ye're seldom tentin',
But Winter's wildest, loudest roars
Ye're maist content in.
What gars you now be sae prevailin',
An' spread your pow'r baith moor an' dale on,
Till hame-spun fouks in cot and mailin'
Ye blaw your breath on,
An' cheerfu' mirth's gay empire's failin',
Wi' thoughts distressin'?
The great, that o' their gear are heedfu',
Tho' blest wi' mair than what is needfu',
By thee are torn wi' whim that's dreadfu',
An' discontent,
Till a' their joys prove unremeadfu',
For want o' want.
O, wad ye stay wi' foppish lowns,
Or prey on priests wi' haly gowns,
Or novel nymphs in borough towns,
Wha ne'er relent ye;
Or fouks wi' garters, stars and crowns
Might weel content ye.
Yet aft ye wring the noblest hearts,
When Hope her wonted hame deserts,
Or whare love shoots his scornfu' darts,
Ye're sure to dwell;
But whare remorse the feelin' smarts
Ye're niest to hell.
How cheerless shines the cheerfu' light,
An' lanely langsome is the night,
To mopin' melancholy wight,
Wha's fancy swims,
While fiends and spectres greet his sight,
In dreary dreams?
The smiles o' beauty, he may see them,
The sweets o' life he canna prie them;
He sees nae things as ithers e'e them:
Trifles perplex him;
Nor music's warblin' notes can please him,
But teaze and vex him.
I've seen thy balefu' influence shed
Roun' skinny poortith's strawy bed;
The frien'less wretch, there lowly laid,
Thou sting'st amain,
An' spread'st around his cheerless bed
Thy gloomy train.
Till frenzied Fever's fiery han'
Alang the witherin' lips was drawn,
Fond Hope and Health were at a stan—
Ye crush'd them there;
Then rous'd your daughter, wild and wan—
E'en dark Despair!
Poor Poets, in their airy station,
Wrapt up in cobweb contemplation,
Whilst spinnin' out some new creation,
Wi' hopefu' e'e,
Are hiss'd by harpy Condemnation,
Then torn by thee.
Altho' thy darksome gloomy reign
May cloud the thought, an' sour the min',
Yet where the Bard does soarin' shine,
Wi' witchin' art,
Thou thrill'st the feelin's there mair fine,
An' men'st the heart.
Thy gentle touch shall aften tend
T' endear the lover and the friend;
To lofty reason aid thou'lt lend,
An' maxims meet,
An' beauty's saftest smile wilt blend
Wi' something sweet.
Thou teachest worldly cares are vain;
Thou winn'st our thoughts frae sordid gain;
Thou gar'st us feel for ithers' pain,
In sorrows sinkin',
An' point'st frae thoughtless Folly's train
To sober thinkin'.
Begot in Disappointment's shade
By dire Disease, thy donsie dad,
On Pride, thy mither,
Wi' sickly Thought, a pale-fac'd blade,
Thy elder brither.
I ken thee by thy ceaseless mane,
Thy stauking gate, and hallow grane,
Thy lantern chafts, and lang cheek-bane,
And deaden'd e'e,
As wanderin' thro' the woods thy lane,
Thy form I see.
Or, sauntrin' near some auld grey biggin',
Where Time has torn the roof and riggin',
Where ghaists and bogles bead fu' trig in,
Wi' midnight croon,
And elves and fairies flisk a jig in,
T' waning moon:
An' by thy thoughtfu' pensive brow,
Bound roun' wi' willow, twin'd wi' yew,
An' gloomy garb that's dark to view,
And cypress sash on;
Thou mind'st nae gowns of gaudy hue,
Nor freaks o' fashion;
Nor blushing Spring, wi' dews and show'rs,
Nor Summer gay, wi' blowing flow'rs,
Nor Autumn, tho' she plenty pours,
Ye're seldom tentin',
But Winter's wildest, loudest roars
Ye're maist content in.
What gars you now be sae prevailin',
An' spread your pow'r baith moor an' dale on,
Till hame-spun fouks in cot and mailin'
Ye blaw your breath on,
An' cheerfu' mirth's gay empire's failin',
Wi' thoughts distressin'?
The great, that o' their gear are heedfu',
Tho' blest wi' mair than what is needfu',
By thee are torn wi' whim that's dreadfu',
An' discontent,
Till a' their joys prove unremeadfu',
For want o' want.
O, wad ye stay wi' foppish lowns,
Or prey on priests wi' haly gowns,
Or novel nymphs in borough towns,
Wha ne'er relent ye;
Or fouks wi' garters, stars and crowns
Might weel content ye.
Yet aft ye wring the noblest hearts,
When Hope her wonted hame deserts,
Or whare love shoots his scornfu' darts,
Ye're sure to dwell;
But whare remorse the feelin' smarts
Ye're niest to hell.
How cheerless shines the cheerfu' light,
An' lanely langsome is the night,
To mopin' melancholy wight,
Wha's fancy swims,
While fiends and spectres greet his sight,
In dreary dreams?
The smiles o' beauty, he may see them,
The sweets o' life he canna prie them;
He sees nae things as ithers e'e them:
Trifles perplex him;
Nor music's warblin' notes can please him,
But teaze and vex him.
I've seen thy balefu' influence shed
Roun' skinny poortith's strawy bed;
The frien'less wretch, there lowly laid,
Thou sting'st amain,
An' spread'st around his cheerless bed
Thy gloomy train.
Till frenzied Fever's fiery han'
Alang the witherin' lips was drawn,
Fond Hope and Health were at a stan—
Ye crush'd them there;
Then rous'd your daughter, wild and wan—
E'en dark Despair!
Poor Poets, in their airy station,
Wrapt up in cobweb contemplation,
Whilst spinnin' out some new creation,
Wi' hopefu' e'e,
Are hiss'd by harpy Condemnation,
Then torn by thee.
Altho' thy darksome gloomy reign
May cloud the thought, an' sour the min',
Yet where the Bard does soarin' shine,
Wi' witchin' art,
Thou thrill'st the feelin's there mair fine,
An' men'st the heart.
Thy gentle touch shall aften tend
T' endear the lover and the friend;
To lofty reason aid thou'lt lend,
An' maxims meet,
An' beauty's saftest smile wilt blend
Wi' something sweet.
Thou teachest worldly cares are vain;
Thou winn'st our thoughts frae sordid gain;
Thou gar'st us feel for ithers' pain,
In sorrows sinkin',
An' point'st frae thoughtless Folly's train
To sober thinkin'.